Blue Blood
by Strat-Mangler
Summary: Two murders. One code. Corruption at the top. The squad at the 15th precinct take on their toughest cases yet!


**Chapter 1**

DAWN WEDGED its way through the blinded windows of the 15th Precinct on this May morning. The faint sounds of rush hour traffic can be overheard near the cracked sills. One by one, night shift personnel file out only to eventually be replaced gradually as the day progresses.

Lieutenant Arthur Fancy is first on the scene as is customary for supervisors to stroll in prior to any of their subordinates. Following a quick read of the night shift's duty report, and with some rudimentary office work out of the way, he makes his way into the coffee room to sample its finest brew. It's the life force of all police departments. The caffeinated lubricant through which justice depends on.

Back at his desk, Fancy makes himself comfortable and flips the first page of his crisp newspaper, allowing him to settle into his day gracefully. He takes a sip and grimaces.

"More bitter than usual" he muses.

He sighs and turns to the sports section. Nothing pleases him more than to allow himself a few moments of tranquility before dealing with bureaucratic processes and the politics of the job. It had been an unpredictable and elating journey.

He was homegrown talent.

After all, the 1-5 had been his duty assignment since he started. Nine years in uniform patrolling the streets, dealing with petty theft and the odd domestic dispute. Then, through networking on the street, building a rapport with some of its less savoury characters. Vinnie Greco was one of them. A twitchy disarming yet untrustworthy man whose information proved vital to the bust which solidified Fancy's career and led to his promotion as Captain.

In the handful of years he's headed his troops, a number of unthinkable events occurred: pressure from corrupted bosses, his daily dealings with his confrontational and bigoted senior detective, and more tragic, the loss of men under his command.

But dealing with the time-bomb that is Sipowicz and the bureaucratic nightmare that is 1 Police Plaza can wait. For now, it's just him and his newspaper.

John Irving strolls into the squad room to the crispy sounds of Fancy's page turning. The thump of his belongings hitting his desk alerted Fancy to his presence. John looks up and offers a shy but cheery wave.

"Good morning, Lieutenant" he said faintly.

He crosses the gate and begins to meticulously arrange his working area for the day ahead. While silence temporarily covers the room, John's expression is that of seriousness and dedication.

Phones ring into the distance, reverberating slightly from both downstairs and Anti-Crime. As if carried by this wave, John's phone also sings its song.

"15th Precinct" he sings.

Moments later, John looks in Fancy's direction and gestures with his index finger a warning of the impending call transfer. Fancy nods with eyes half-open, fully realizing his tranquility will not return for another 24 hours. He picks up the receiver mid-ring to announce himself and decisively jots down on his pad.

Sipowicz emerges from the bathroom, his shirt neatly tucked into his pants. He pulls his chair and sighs. Collecting himself, he turns to John.

"How's it goin'" he grunts.

It wasn't so much a question as much as an acknowledgement.

"Good morning, detective" John replies before returning his attention to his filing tasks.

Moments later, the remaining detectives appear in the doorway. Martinez, Kirkendall, Medavoy, Simone, and Russell hang their coats and walk towards their desks. A chorus of greetings is uttered by all. No sooner has he sat down that Martinez springs from his chair and waltzed into the coffee room. Medavoy does the same. An empty coffee pot shines in the morning light. An irritated sigh leaves Martinez' lips when Medavoy enters the room.

"Can you believe this?" Martinez asks, branding the empty pot. "The sign says this should be refilled for the next guy and now I'm gonna have to wait to get my caffeine fix."

"Don't get me started, James" Medavoy begins as he sways from side to side. "That's happened to me plen'y! I, I, I, I bet it's the night shift guys. You know they're thinkin' "we're leavin' and those suckers can make their own coffee!"" He punctuates his point by lifting himself briefly on his toes and landing emphatically on his heel. Martinez responds in his usual musical speech.

"I don't know, Greg. I've been here before and there'd be enough for a cup or two but if I'm not quick enough on the draw, it's gone! I'm startin' to think the Lieutenant might have somethin' to do with it."

"You think so?" Medavoy quizzes, partially surprised at the accusation. "Then why doesn't he put on a new one?" as he points to the pot. He continues rambling. "Doesn't he want the squad to be aptly caffeinated to start the day?" He pauses and adds "You think we should say somethin'?"

Martinez pushes out a moan indicating his uneasiness with the question.

"I don't think so, Greg. My guess is if he wanted to do it, he'd do it already. Sure is good to be king though, right?" he rhetorically asks with a toothy smile.

Medavoy laughs.

"Yeah. You can order your jesters to make more coffee" He continues with an air of playfulness. "I guess they should change it to "The early bird gets the coffee," right James?"

Martinez feels the awkward pause as he tries to mask the pained look on his face.

"Anyways,…" he responds.

Fancy walks into the coffee room. Both partners pretend their conversation never happened. They silently hope Fancy didn't overhear them.

"Good morning, Greg. James?" he says before lunging towards a doughnut. He begins to leave, turns around, pauses, but thinks better of it and exits for his office.

From the doorway, Martinez notices Simone sitting at his desk.

"Maybe Bobby has the right idea. You think I should start drinking tea instead?" Martinez doesn't seem that convinced of his own idea.

"Nah. Before you know it, you'd start taking care of pigeons and, and, and partnering with Andy!" Medavoy jokes.

"Yeah. Good point." Martinez grins to please his partner and carelessly slams the coffee pot back into its receptacle.

Casually, Fancy saunters to the gate and turns to his detectives whom he greets.

"We got one. Male DOA on Weston Avenue and 4th. Andy, you're up."

Sipowicz takes the yellow Post-It note from Fancy. He squints while verifying the address, then subtly lifts his chin to Simone and Russell, indicating it's time to get up. They beeline to the exit and grab their overcoats on their way out.

"And…" Fancy begins as he turns around to find Medavoy, Kirkendoll, and Martinez newly seated at their desks. "We also have another DOA on Blackmore and 3rd."

"All right, Lieu" Martinez exclaims as he slides the note from Fancy sandwiched fingers.

Another day, another case.

 **Chapter 2**

THE POLICE tape signals to passersby to keep their distances from the crime scene. As usual, uniformed cops guard access to the crime scene from the overcurious types and members of the press. A beige Buick pulls up the curb. As its engine is turned off, it jolts forward once. Sipowicz and Simone emerge from the vehicle and make their way to the responding officer on scene. Andy takes his time. He surveys the whole area like a man perpetually looking over his shoulder in new environments. Simone has a confident bopping stride. His blue overcoat delicately dances in the wind.

"What's up, Shannon?" asks Simone.

Office Mike Shannon stood legs slightly apart, reviewing his notes. His curly hair had an outline exposing he had been wearing his on-duty hat earlier. He had the reassuring disposition of a man with experience. Though he occasionally clashed with the detectives on matters in which officers in his own precinct might be involved in some wrongdoings, these suspicions usually would be proven right. Respected by the men and women on the 2nd floor, he could afford a little more familiarity in his dealings with them.

"How's it goin', Bobby? This guy took two in the chest. That woman standing there saw two guys take off."

Simone waits expectedly, leans in, and expresses surprise with eyes open wide.

"That's it?!"

"That's all I got for you, Bobby. Nobody else saw anything… or bothered to."

Simone shakes his head simultaneously amused and discouraged.

"All right. We'll take it from here."

Sipowicz's half-grins as if to announce his upcoming acerbic comment.

"In this neighborhood, the only thing that gets them people's attention's a police brutality rally. When they're not busy killing each other, them shutting blinds is all they can do to pretend they don't live in a toilet." He launches his index finger into the air to underline his point. Simone calms him down.

"Yeah, huh?" He bites his upper lip. "Maybe one of them has something for us" he remarks, putting a delicate emphasis on the word.

They ease up to their witness. Age hadn't been kind to her. In her 60s going on 80, her wrinkled face and the weak permanently bloodshot eyes hiding behind her thick glasses painted a picture of a hard life. Her black skin looked like old leather. To her, merely standing here today was a triumph.

"Good morning, ma'am" Simone begins cordially. "I'm Det. Simone and this is my partner, Det. Sipowicz."

"How do you do? I'm Mariel. Mariel Johnson" she politely responds, clearly concerned of the dead body lying mere feet away from her, under a yellow tarp.

"Can you tell us what happened, here?" Simone inquires.

"I live on the 4th floor, up there." She points to a window with peach-colored curtains. "I can't sleep. I have insomnia" she sheepishly confides. She continues. "I was watching my show when I hear "BANG! BANG!" so I look out the window and I see these 2 men running down 3rd avenue."

Simone was about to ask something but Sipowicz beat him to it.

"What did these two men look like?"

"Well, it was dark… And I don't see too good."

Sipowicz gets annoyed.

"Can you tell us anything?! White, black, fat, ta…" she interrupts him.

"They were black. One was bigger than the other."

"What about what they were wearin'? Sipowicz continues.

"Dark clothes, mostly. One had a red cap. I can't tell you anything else."

Simone takes over.

"All right, ma'am. That's helpful. Did the office over there take down your information?"

"He did."

"OK. If you can think of anything else, please give us a call." He hands her his card.

Sipowicz sneers. "Helpful…"

"It's something to go on, Andy" Simone sighs. "Do you want us to stay here or can we go see the body, now?" He gestures with both hands in its direction.

To indicate to his partner to proceed, Sipowicz moves aside and bows down slightly. He then extends his arm swiftly, all of his hand's digits pointing at the body and showing the way to his partner.

With a roll of the eyes away from his partner's stare, Simone takes a few steps and kneels down. Carefully peeling away the tarp revealed a black man in his late 20s lying on his back awkwardly. Rubbish from the street was sprinkled onto his short curly hair. Sipowicz pulls a wallet from the victim's back pocket and begins to examine its contents.

"Tyrone Williams, 28. $60 in cash, some subway tokens… Says here he lives in Harlem. You're a long ways away from home, pal" he blurts out at the corpse.

Rummaging through his checkered shirt's pockets, Simone produces a few sealed packets of white substance.

"I guess we can rule out robbery."

"Yeah. Just had $60 'cause he croaked before he collected from everybody on his paper route" Sipowicz retorts.

"Anyways,… Might be a good idea to head back to the house and put this guy through BCI."

In agreement, Simone silently requests Shannon to come see him by way of his waving index finger and requests a canvas be started, fully aware of the low chances it will yield good results. Meanwhile, Sipowicz walks back towards the car with his radio in hand, faintly emitting mumbled announcements.

 **Chapter 3**

MATCHING SILVER Sedans arrive at the scene with Medavoy & Martinez rising from one and Russell & Kirkendall materializing from the other. Whereas the female detectives stride nimbly, Medavoy's clumsy and Martinez' rhythmic gallops eventually lead them in front of the officer at the scene.

His shield number read "9421" but he was known as Officer O'Lunney. A burly Irishman with a clean haircut and a square jaw. In a bar fight, it would be wise to bet on him vanquishing his opponents with conviction. Good thing he wears the uniform.

"What happened here?" inquires Russell.

"We're still piecin' it together but as far as we can tell, the victim left this bar a little before closing time. Then, this car pulls up, they nail 'im with a couple o' rounds and then split."

"Anything on the car? Make, model, and the like?" asks Martinez.

"All we got are a buncha customers, all of 'em half in the bag and pissed off they had to hang around so long" replies O'Lunney, leaving no doubt of the unpleasant exchanges he had with the clientele.

"Don't worry about it. We got it" reassures Medavoy who gestures to his partner towards to bar.

The door swings open to the sound of Victorian shop bells, temporarily allowing the sun's rays to peek inside. Patrons shy away from the light. Some let out annoyed groans but try refocusing their attention on their beverages. A disheveled bartender stands quietly, bottle in hand. His weary face and largely baggy eyes made it seem as if sleep had been a luxury for many years. A slightly off-center nose hinted at an early boxing career, or at least a bar fight he was on the losing end of. What little hair he had left was haphazardly strewn.

"You the owner?" Martinez lets out.

"Yeah…?" the bartender replied as if out of breath.

"I'm Det. Martinez and this is my partner, Det. Medavoy. What's your name?"

"Mick."

"Mick who?"

"Mick Perera."

"This is a murder investigation, Mick. What are you doin' servin' these people in tha mornin'?" Martinez remarks. He looks to the patron to his right, then puts his hand on top of the full shooter glass and pulls it away.

"Heeeey… Give that back." The patron weakly protests before giving up.

"They're thirsty. These guys have been here for hours, getting rowdy. What was I supposed to do? If I'm going to stay here for a while, I might as well make a few bucks" the bartender justifies. He finally lays the bottle on the bar but keeps hold of it.

"Who was the victim? Was he a regular?"

"Never seen him before. Ordered a couple of beers he nursed for an hour. That's it."

Medavoy scans the half-dozen patrons' conditions and recognizes there is no undoing the harm. His mouth forms a small round shape as he sighs before jumping in.

"Tell us what you saw."

"… Nothing" the bartender answered after a brief pause.

"Nothing…" sarcastically quizzes Medavoy. "A guy gets shot in front of your establishment and we're supposed to believe… "Nothing?""

"Well… yeah. I had my back turned tending to those bottles over there when it happened." Martinez applies some pressure.

"Mick, how'd you like to get your license suspended for servin' drunks past closin' time?"

"Hey, gimme a break…"

"Start talkin'" interrupts Medavoy. His hand slams the bar. Playtime's over.

"All right, all right" quickly says the bartender with more alertness. "Right before closing time, this guy leaves the bar and this beat up green Chevy pulls up, tires screeching and everything… The guy freezes up then just as he's about to run, they shoot twice, then leave."

"What kinda car?

"Hell if I know! One of those old Chevys. They all look alike to me."

"How many people were in the car?" Martinez asks.

"Must've been two."

"Describe 'em." Medavoy orders.

"Come on, guys… Look, I'm just trying to run a business here. I don't want no trouble from nobody."

"No one's gonna know it came from you. OK?" insists Martinez.

The bartender now tense, lets out an audible sigh from the back of his throat and gathers up the courage to answer.

"It was two Latinos. The one with the gun was… young. Maybe… mid-20s? Black short hair, slim build, had something dark on his hand like a tattoo or something. That's all I got, OK?" he negotiates.

"What about the driver?" Medavoy insists.

"I didn't get a good look at the driver. He's Latino but beyond that…"

"Could you come in and work it out with a sketch artist on the shooter?" Martinez asks.

"I didn't get that good a look. What I tell you's all I know."

"Anybody else can add to that?" shouts Medavoy? Tired grunts are bellowed by the patrons. "Didn't think so. What's wrong, gentlemen? Cat got your tongue!?"

"OK. That was helpful. Thanks" acknowledges Martinez.

"Yeah, sure. You better hope those guys don't come back to burn my business! If that happens, that's on you!"

The detectives share an equally exasperated look and take their leave. The drunk at the bar grabs his drink back and gulps it instantly.

Meanwhile, Russell and Kirkendall cover the body with its tarp to shield it from view. They're joined by their male counterparts. Kirkendall acknowledges their arrival and launches into her report.

"Manuel Hernandez, 34. Shot in the thigh and chest. Has a bunch of business cards from landscaping companies… This was a drive-by, not a robbery."

"Yeah. We got that from that jerk bartender. These two Latinos pull up in a green Chevy on its last legs, shoot Hernandez, and speed off. We got a partial description on the shooter but nothin' on the driver."

"We better start a canvas… for all the good it's gonna do" remarks Russell. Nods are exchanged. As they all spread out to cover more ground, an ambulance nears to take the body to the morgue.

 **Chapter 4**

THUMPS POPULATE the stairwell. The half-dozen detectives return to the squad room. Sipowicz spots his wife, Sylvia Costas, on the stairs on her way to Anti-Crime.

"Hi, Andy…"

"Sylvia!" He turns to Simone. "I'll be in there in a minute to run it by the boss." Simone nods. He starts removing his overcoat as he walks away.

"What's going on?" she asks, perplexed. She comes down the stairs to meet him. He takes her aside so as not to be overheard.

"I gotta talk to you… about that thing you want me to do."

"OK…" she tentatively acknowledges while putting down her briefcase.

"Listen… Uh, do we have to go through with this? I mean, uh, isn't enough for us to be a family and raise Theo good? Why do we have to go through with this?"

"This again? I thought you were OK with it, now. Drafting a will isn't a big deal, Andy. In two hours, it'll all be over." she reassures him. Sipowicz isn't convinced.

"Why now, huh? We never needed one before. I'm careful, I take good care of you and the baby and…" He sighs stopping himself from exposing her to more of his ramblings. She puts her hands on his chest.

"It makes things simpler for everybody, that's all. I'll be there with you. We'll work together with the notary." she says warmly.

"Yeah, all right" he says unconvinced, looking over her shoulder.

"Andy, we're doing this for Theo." Sipowicz dismisses himself.

"I gotta case I gotta work on. I'll see you around, Sylvia."

Sipowicz walks away. Sylvia drops her shoulders and sighs, then bends down to pick up her briefcase and resumes taking the stairs to the upper floor. As Sipowicz crosses the gate, he notices Simone on the phone. Their eyes meet, acknowledging each other's presence. Simone carries on his conversation.

"I don't know, Ricky! I thought you were lookin' to earn." His annoyance is enough for Russell to look up. Sipowicz is back at his desk. "Yeah, fine. We can talk about it if you come in with anything worthwhile. I don't know! 150, maybe 200? Yeah, OK. Let me know." Simone hangs up the receiver somewhat irritated.

"You're not puttin' up a hit on Simon sighs, exasperated. Signaling to the phone, he explains to his partner and Russell.

"An informant of mine. A huge pain in the ass, this guy. His info's solid, though. If there's something to find, Ricky's the neighborhood watch. He'll find it." Russell and Sipowicz nod. "Should we run it by the boss?"

"Yeah" says Russell.

Simone knocks on Fancy's door who nods him in. Eventually, all six detectives are congregated in their lieutenant's office and begin to discuss the two cases. Simone starts.

"DOA was shot twice in the chest at close range, boss. Meanwhile, the whole neighborhood's playing See no evil, Hear no evil, Speak no evil."

"Yeah. They've been a big help" remarks Sipowicz. Simone continues.

"We did have a witness, a woman living in an apartment building up close to the crime scene mention two black men in dark clothes fleeing the scene, one with a red cap." Sipowicz pets his hair back.

"There's a description! We should have that wrapped up by lunchtime."

"What are you doing with this one, now?" asks Fancy. Sipowicz answers.

"Shannon started a canvas. We'll put a call to their next of kin and have 'em come in. Bobby reached out to an informant of his who might turn up somethin' for us. Meanwhile, we'll head back up there and see where else these assholes might've ended up at."

Fancy nods and turns his attention to his other detectives. Kirkendall takes the lead.

"Not much to tell so far, Lieu. The DOA steps out of a bar and he gets killed in a drive-by. We'll contact the parents to see if anything shakes out."

"Do we have any details on the car?"

"A bartender identified a green Chevy with two Latinos in it. He gave us a general description. A bit of a jerk, the bartender. But he was cooperative" finalizes Martinez. But Medavoy wasn't finished.

"Yeah. That bartender was a jerk, all right. Pussyfooting and so forth…" Fancy ignores the comment and continues.

"Check with ballistics if they were able to get bullets for both DOAs. If not, let me know and I'll dispatch CSU to the crime scenes."

They adjourn back to their respective desks except for Sipowicz who heads for the bathroom. Simone leans towards Russell and speaks softly.

"Got plans for tonight?"

"I'll have to check my calendar" she responds seductively. "What do you have in mind?"

"Some of my special made chorizo and a bottle of wine, for starters."

"Ooh! That's a heavy meal. Guess we'll have to work it off after" she playfully suggests with a smirk. Simone's eyebrows arch slightly.

"Let's see if we can work that out." He smiles and rolls his chair back to his working area. She leaves cup in hand for the coffee room.

The bathroom door swings open. Sipowicz throws a used piece of rolled up toilet paper he used to dry his hands into the garbage can and nonchalantly steps to his chair and sits down.

"Let me call those bozos and run our DOA through BCI." The receiver clicks as he picks it up, dials the number, and waits.

"It's Sipowicz from the 15th. The name we wanna check on is Tyrone Williams. Yeah. Uh-huh. Hey now! You're gonna do better than three hours, all right? What are you guys doin' over there? Buildin' Noah's Ark?" He sighs in resignation. "All right, fine. Yeah. Call me when you got something." He hangs up. Simone leans back.

"You felt like giving them a motivational speech, Andy?"

"Three hours, they said. Computer's down. Won't know dick 'til then. Computers… pffff!" he snarls.

Silence fills the room. A comfortable one for Simone but a one that gnaws at Sipowicz who begins to tap on a pad with a pencil. Slowly at first, then harder and faster until he throws it on his desk like someone throwing change in a wishing well.

"You wanna head out and hit some places? Better than bein' cooped up in here, waiting for my hair to grow."

"I think we're safe on that front." Simone taunts. His partner turns around to see Simone flash a wink. Overcoats jump out of their rack and onto the detectives' backs. The clapping of soles on stairs is heard with decreasing intensity.

 **Chapter 5**


End file.
